Let Me In
by wheresmyothershoe
Summary: Miss Warren is a student at Beacon Hills High who, because of her techie abilities, finds herself at the gang's mercy. She's a bit of a nerd, but a nice person nonetheless. What will come of her constant clashing with Jackson Whittemore, a fellow classmate who is not so nice? Jackson/OC. Slow burn.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: It goes without saying that I don't own Teen Wolf. I only own any characters that you do not recognize.**

_**Day 1**_

High school is a nightmare.

Seriously, whose brilliant idea was it to throw kids that hate each other into a stuffy labyrinth of metal and drywall and force them to absorb knowledge from middle-aged men and women who hate themselves? I mean, this place is filled to the brim with hormonal, ticking time-bombs. One misstep and you've got girls ripping at each other's hair and douches in "Tapout" t-shirts picking on one defenseless little freshman.

"Are you kidding me?" I remark in disbelief as a sleek, black Porsche cuts me off and whips into a parking spot that is rightfully mine. Cue doves, cue slow motion, cue the dulcet tones of Air's "Sexy Boy." Here comes Jackson Whittemore. He's a boy that I consider synonymous with James Dean, hair-gel, metrosexuality and steroids. Lots and lots of steroids.

I aggressively honk my horn.

"Your paint's starting to chip, Warren," Jackson states while tapping twice on the hood of my car as he passes by. I can feel my blood vessels threatening to burst from the bout of anger coursing thru my veins. Not only does he have blatant disregard for the rest of the human race, but also for my baby, my precious hunk of screws and wires that gets me from A to B: The Turd. See, The Turd is my gray, '95 Caravan. My father gave it to me with 190,000 miles already on it, when he thought surely that it would join the motorized boneyard. Isn't he a gem?

I spot Scott and Stiles, two of my sort-of amigos, across the way. I jog up to them, messenger bag smacking against my thigh with every hit to the pavement.

"What's up, guys?" I shout.

They turn to look at me, startled at my intrusion. In fact, they always look this way when I come around. Wide-eyed and worried, like they're trying to conceal some deep, dark secret. I usually just chalk this up to their reluctance to be friends with anyone but each other. Their bond of man-friendship is strong and borderline romantic.

"Warren," Stiles says jovially. "Just the person I wanted to see." I know this a lie, but I smile nonetheless. He comes around and slips his arm over my shoulder. "Are you up to hacking something for me, buddy? I'll pay you top dollar. And, by top dollar, I mean 5 bucks and a Reese's cup."

No way can I pass up an offer like that! I'm always up for a little wrong-doing in the cyber world. I am, after all, president of the Tech Club at Beacon Hills High. We fix computers in the library, help maintain the school website, bust past the firewalls on the student grade-books. Really noble stuff, you know?

"What am I hacking into?" I question.

"Well, uh," he struggles to spit out the words. "There's this site where—"

I hold up a hand and cut him off, "I am not hacking into a subscription porn site so that you can access videos for free."

Stiles' eyes widen and tiny sounds of almost-words come out of his mouth. He is sputtering. Shocked that I know his intentions all too well, I suppose. I shake my head and chuckle with good nature. He is one of the most transparent people I have ever met. I pat him on the shoulder and make my way into the school.

A couple of classes come and go. I drift through them with mild interest. There are hundreds of kids in these halls, but very few of them are actually **here**. Most of us aren't actually thinking about quadratic formulas or the process of osmosis. The guys are focused on copulating like rabbits with the girls and the girls are trying to decide if they are whore-y for letting the boys get that far. I, on the other hand, spend my time observing them observe each other.

I have never had a boyfriend. I don't state this with shame or anger. It is simply a fact and, honestly, I could care less. I guess I'm a bit like Sherlock Holmes that way; I find enjoyment in my passions, but my passions do not involve other people. Not to mention, nobody has ever really made any offers, you know? The last kid that liked me was a burly boy with a buzz cut who went by his family name, O'Doyle. O'Doyle spent most of elementary school wiping boogers on the back of my chair and tripping me on the playground. On Valentine's Day in 5th grade, when it was his turn to pass out those little square valentines to all of our peers, he only gave one to me. I remember staring at his outstretched hand in horror before hesitantly accepting it. Our classmates howled with laughter at my blatant disgust. I had a hard time accepting his token of love when I couldn't forget about the pool of snot he crafted onto my chair for all of those years.

So when Chemistry class rolls around and I'm forced to sit with O'Doyle at a lab station, all of those mucus-filled memories hit me like a ton of gooey bricks. I drop my books down onto the table, plopping down on the wooden stool. I offer him a sheepish smile when I notice that he is looking at me with utter disbelief. His eyebrows furrow, creating a thick indent between his eyebrows. His lips curl up in anger. I am shocked when he picks up his stuff and moves to an occupied table three seats in front of me. Gee, I guess he's still bitter, huh?

"Warren!" Mr. Harris yells. "You can't sit by yourself. Move!"

I sigh and scan the room. The single tables are all full, the four-seater tables can barely handle a fifth body cramming its way in. I turn around and my gaze lands on an empty seat. My eyes travel their way up and come in contact with none other than Jackson Whittemore. He looks at me, then the chair, then back to me, as if he is challenging me to take a seat at his table. Danny, on the other hand, gives me an encouraging smile. I swallow my pride and make my way over to the two boys; one, who has proved himself a great contributor to my own personal hell, and the other, a decent human being. Won't this be magical.

"Hey," Danny greets.

"Hello," I say quietly and offer an I-come-in-peace sort of half-smile. "How are you?"

"Do you ever dress like a girl?" Jackson interrupts our exchange of niceties with his daily dose of bullying. Although, his voice doesn't hold the same level of sting that it usually does. Probably holding himself back for the sake of his best friend. "Because, I gotta tell ya, Warren, the whole tomboy look went out of style years ago."

I look down at my black t-shirt with a frown. The silk-screen print of Jason Voorhees, a favorite horror villain of mine, is staring back at me (upside down, of course). I look back up at Jackson and his mocking smile.

Never kick a dog when he's down, buddy. There is always the possibility that he will lift his head up and gnaw at your stupid, athletic ankles.

"Are you ever gonna have a haircut that doesn't make you look like a lesbian woman?" I question nonchalantly.

Danny tries his best not to snicker at my quip, but grins nonetheless. This grin falters when he sees Jackson's jaw tick and his no-bullshit expression. Test papers begin to circulate around the room. I get straight to work, eager to get it done so that I can focus on pretending I'm anywhere but here. I hear a sudden plop. My eyes shift across the table to Jackson's paper. There is a huge spot of black liquid smack-dab in the center of his test paper. My head tilts in confusion.

"Dude," Danny says to Jackson. "Your nose."

A dark liquid is blazing a trail from Jackson's nose to his lips. It looks like a scene straight out of an exorcism movie or one those creepy black mass rituals. He reaches up and wipes the offending substance from his nose. The look on his face spells one part shock and one part "holy shit". He exits the room like a bat out of hell, leaving Danny and I to stare at each other with slightly horrified curiosity.

I love high school.

**Soundtrack to Chapter 1:**

**Air – Sexy Boy**

**M83 – Midnight City**

**Hannah Georgas – Chit Chat**

**The xx – Fiction**

**Hanni El Khatib – Come Alive**

**Sea Wolf – You're a Wolf**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: It goes without saying that I don't own Teen Wolf. I only own any characters that you do not recognize. **

_**Day 3**_

Got an 85 on my chemistry test. I should have done better.

And I would have, had I been able to study properly. Last night was a montage of alternating between studying and trying to prevent the noise from my neighbor's house from penetrating our paper thin walls. You see, I live next to the Lahey's. To my knowledge, it's just the father and son, Isaac that live there. But sometimes, they make it seem like there is an entire gang of wild boars inside that house.

I know that Isaac's father abuses him. I've known it for a long time and, despite my moral code, I could never find the courage within me to turn him in. I've watched these things happen on the television before. Upstanding citizen files a report with the police, but nothing ever comes of it. The victim always denies it for fear of the consequences.

I've seen the boy around school, always paranoid and looking over his shoulder. I hate to say it, but he doesn't have the guts to turn his father in. I mean, who could blame him?

I get this sick feeling while looking down at my test grade. It's not a bad grade by any means. Mediocre, yes. But it's not horrible, not the end of the world. I bet that's how Mr. Lahey must view his son's grades though. Isaac brings home a B- or C+ and his dad pounds on him? I close my eyes and swallow the lump working its way up my throat.

"You did pretty well, Warren," Danny remarks while glancing at my paper. "What's wrong?"

I clear my throat and reply weakly, "It's not the paper."

I look over to the table where Isaac normally sits. His seat is empty. A wave of panic comes over me. Flashes of Isaac being beaten and pushed down the stairs dance in my head. I imagine his dad throwing his crippled body into a thirty gallon black garbage bag and disposing of it miles away from Beacon Hills. There's a lot of backwoods around these parts. He could get away with it easily.

"Where is Isaac Lahey?" I demand.

"No clue," Danny looks confused as he says this. "I saw him earlier though. Why? Do you like him or something? I don't know if that's such a good idea. He's a little tweaked, if you know what I mean."

"No, no," I shoo away his suggestions. "I heard him and his dad fighting last night. It got really…intense. I just wanted to make sure that he was okay."

Danny's expression turns to one of concern. I'm momentarily surprised that he doesn't question me about what I've implied. Apparently it's no secret that Isaac has a not-so-healthy relationship with his father? Huh. You'd think, out of about thirty boys on the lacrosse team, at least one of them would speak up about what is going on.

"I'm sure he is fine," Danny says.

The bell rings. I decide to skip my next class and pop by the lacrosse practice. I can't shake the feeling that something really terrible has happened to Isaac. Or maybe even to his father. I just need a peace of mind.

I make my way over to the hard metal bleachers and pop a squat right behind Matt and Jackson, who looked to be deep in conversation. Practice hasn't started. Most of the boys are suiting up. This is a perfect opportunity to look for Isaac. I see Coach Flinstock is making the rounds, talking to some players. I pray that he doesn't see me.

"Warren!" Flinstock yells, blowing his whistle for emphasis.

The fates, they always work against me.

I wince at both the sound and the fact that I've been spotted. I stand up to walk towards him, but my pant leg snags in the seam underneath the bench. I put my arms up in preparation for the impact of solid metal, but the painful feeling never comes. Two arms encircle my waist just in time.

"Are you okay?" Matt asks.

I just stare at him with that fish-out-of-water look. You know, the one where you appear to be gasping for air? Only, I'm not gasping. Hell, I don't think I'm even breathing. Something about him gives me the heebie jeebies. Luckily, Coach Flinstock intervenes during my shining moment of social ineptness.

"Jesus Christ!" Coach runs over. "You alright, Warren? Why are you even here? You know what, don't even answer that. This is probably some creepy teenage girl thing. You get a few glimpses of some sweaty boys, you put the mental images in your spank bank."

My nose crinkles up. I can't believe he just said "spank bank." To a girl, no less. Do girls even have those? The same introspective, yet mildly grossed out look forms on the faces of both Matt and Jackson.

"Forget I ever said that," he commands.

I guess he decides that me almost eating bench is embarrassing enough. He walks away without telling me to report back to class. I sit back down.

"You need a camera?" Matt says. "You got a hundred bucks?"

"I drive a Porsche," Jackson replies, as if that explains everything.

The only thing that explains is that his Mom and Dad shower him with ridiculous amounts of money to make up for their inadequacy as parents. He probably would've turned out a decent human being if they had made the effort to spend a little bit more time with him. Oh, yeah, it also proves that he is a spoiled bastard.

I begin to wonder what he needs a camera for. He's not much for gadgets, other than his cell phone. I'm 99.9% positive that he has zero interest in photography of any kind. So what is he doing? Filming a porno?

"Might I suggest the Canon HV40?" I say, keeping my eyes on the field. "It works pretty well in low light. Decent focus. I'm sure you'll get some great shots of her yabbos."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Jackson growls.

"Uh," I begin in a faux man-voice, as if to mock his own. "For the snuff film you're probably planning on making."

"I thought the same thing when he asked me," Matt states with a smile.

"I'm not making something as ridiculously ordinary as a porno," Jackson says. "I'm filming history, **my history**. And I want to see it happen. Every last second of it."

"Dude, you need to lay off the juice," I say.

Practice kicks off with Scott McCall in the goal and the rest of the players line up to take shots. The first boy steps up, runs, and is instantaneously knocked to the ground. From where I am sitting, I can see Scott lean down closely to the boys face. A healthy, verbal tete-à-tete, I imagine?

Then, it's the next boys turn. He eats dirt. Then, the next one. He eats dirt too. Finally, I see him. Isaac is, indeed, alive. His chest heaves up and down. Even through the mask, I can see the swift determination on his face. He charges towards McCall with ferocity unlike I anything I've ever seen before. Okay, clearly he is doing much better than I anticipated.

I look to the right only to see the Sheriff, Stiles' dad, on the field with another deputy. Isaac, unmasked now, looks at them too. The Sheriff walks over and gently takes him by the arm, leading him away from the crowd. That sinking feeling I had earlier, the one that I felt deep in my stomach. The one that almost made its way up my throat. I guess I had a valid reason for that now.

What in the world is going on?

**Soundtrack to Chapter 2:**

**David Condos – I Should Be Lost Without You**

**Of Verona – Dark In My Imagination**

**Crystal Fighters – At Home**

**Shouting At Planes – Surrender**

**City and Colour – Waiting…**

**Note: If anyone can tell me what 90's Disney movie the word "yabbos" is from, then…you will officially be the coolest person alive. Also, I apologize to you spelling sticklers for the blatant mess up on the French word, "tete-a-tete." I couldn't find the "e circonflexe" on my keyboard under the French setting. And I'm too lazy to look for it.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: It goes without saying that I don't own Teen Wolf. I only own any characters that you do not recognize.**

**Note: I'M REALLY SORRY FOR THE WAIT! I lose interest quickly, I think. This is definitely not the best thing I've ever written. Every chapter of this story is hashed out within an hour or two and I barely edit it before submitting it to the site. This is really just a stress-relieving little story written half-heartedly in horrible present-tense. Seriously, why in the world did I start writing this in present tense? I don't even have an outline for this story. I just write. Blah blah blah, woe is me.**

**Thank you, to the those of you who have reviewed!**

_**Day 3, continued**_

There's an odd chill in the air tonight.

Now, you may be wondering how it could possibly be cold here in sunny California, but believe me when I say that it's been this way for a few weeks. When the sun starts to set over the horizon, it's like the entire atmosphere changes. I get the feeling that something deeper than inclement weather is going on in Beacon Hills. My dad notices it too.

"I saw that Argent fella outside the gas station last night," he says, shoveling a heaping forkful of spaghetti into his mouth. "He was watching this dark-haired girl. Looked to be about your age. It was kind of creepy."

"That was probably his daughter, Dad," I reply.

The thing about my father is that, where he excels in age-old wisdom and intuitiveness, he lacks in common sense. I think those reruns of _Cops _and _48 Hours_ have gone to his head. He's always looking for a sinister angle to everything. Although, this proves to be quite amusing in instances like these where he confuses a protective parent for a sleazy child predator.

"She didn't even know he was there, Kiddo," Dad continues. "He was, like, fifty feet away."

"Okay, that **is** creepy," I relent.

Why in the hell would he be lurking in the shadows? I mean, if he wants to stalk his teenage daughter that badly, all he needs to do is put a GPS in her phone. Totally invasive, but simple and effective. I guess I can understand why he does it though. A GPS can tell him where his daughter is, but it can't tell him whether or not she's with Scott McCall.

Even a fool can see that things with Scott and Allison have been strained recently. Scott appears to be getting the brush-off from Allison more often than usual. My female intuition tells me this is more than a severe case of PMS, however. She seems to be genuinely peeved about something. I notice all the disgusted shakes of her head and the angry fluttering of her eyes each time he tries to explain himself to her.

Alright, I'll admit that I'm probably way too emotionally invested in their relationship. But, when you're a dateless loser like _moi_, it's inevitable that you try to live vicariously through others. And it's not my fault they act like a modern day _Romeo & Juliet_! They are the textbook definitions of star-crossed lovers – Allison's family hates Scott, Allison's family tries to force Scott out of her life – it's all there! Well, there hasn't been a double suicide yet, but who cares about details anyway?

Dad swipes my plate out from underneath me just as I am shoving the last meatball in my mouth. A big goop of sauces slides off the hunk of meat and dribbles down my chin. Gee, why don't guys want to date me again? I'm the epitome of sex appeal and femininity.

"I wasn't done, man!" I exclaim.

"Yes, you were," Dad deadpans, walking to the kitchen sink. "There was nothing on your plate, therefore you were finished."

There's no logic in that whatsoever. At least, not in my opinion. What if I wanted to lick the sauce off the plate? I rest my head on the table in defeat.

"Hey, come look," he says. "That Jason kid is outside."

"It's Jackson, Dad," I say, refusing to lift my head from the table.

"He's talking to some guy," he states.

"It's probably just some gentleman caller," I reply with a chuckle. "We all know he plays for the other team."

I know all too well that this is untrue, but the bitter sarcasm in me always has me cracking these kinds of joke when it comes to Jackson Douchemore. See, there I go again! I'm unstoppable. All jokes aside though, I've always had this overwhelming contempt for Jackson. This goes back all the way to elementary school, to a simple game of kickball.

Every recess we would play a round of kickball. Kids would divide into two teams, as elected by one all powerful leader. The leader, usually with natural athletic talent, would choose kids according to their athletic abilities. The choosing would get progressively worse as the leader would run out of physically inclined kids. Needless to say, if you were picked last, you weren't exactly considered cream of the crop. Not getting picked at all, however, was the absolute worst.

Yes, this is the part where I tell you that I was never picked. At all. One time I was leaning up against the brick wall of our elementary school, watching Jackson as he walked up and down a row of kids, sporting the most calculating look I'd ever seen on a kid who hadn't even hit puberty yet. He grabbed a few kids by their collars and swung them behind him into the rest of his crew. By the time he had reached me, he only had one more spot to fill on his team. Naturally, I thought I'd be chosen.

"I think I'll just have an uneven number on my team," Jackson declared. "There's no way Miss Piggy here can keep up with the rest of us."

I was beyond humiliated.

I pushed off the wall to run away from him, but on my way I tripped over a tough mound of dirt. My face collided with hot, prickly asphalt. I heard the kids laughing behind me and I kept my face down in shame. A copper taste formed in my mouth.

"Oh, my dear!" my teacher ran over to me, her long denim skirt swooshing behind her. That was the only part of her I could see. "Let's get you to a nurse, sweetie."

She cradled her arms around my shoulders, a sort of foreign feeling to me. On the way back into the school building, she turned and glared at the children who were still cackling. They quieted. I continued to stare at the grass, too afraid to look up and see the mocking expressions on their faces. The nurse, a not-so-pleasant and portly woman, actually looked at me with pity when I was whisked into her office. Normally, she didn't give a damn about kids and their tummy aches and boo-boos, so I must've looked pretty grizzly to illicit such a look.

She tended to my cut up face with some peroxide and bandages, then sent me home early. My dad didn't say anything when he picked me up. He knew better than to ask me what had happened. I spent the rest of my day watching television. When 4:30 rolled around and I saw the big yellow bus out my living room window, I pounded down the stairs of my front porch. I had a thing or two to say to Jackson Whittemore.

"What's your problem, jerkface?" I shouted, power-walking to the space between him and the sidewalk leading to his house.

"What?" he looked confused.

"Why are you so mean to me all the time? What have I ever done to you?" I questioned, pushing my finger into his chest.

"You're a loser," Jackson replied. "I can't have a loser on my team."

"How can you think that it's okay to treat people like this?" I cried.

He moved past me and made his way to his front door. I just stood there, my chest heaving up and down. I shut my eyes tightly. I think maybe I was trying to will away the sounds in my head…the children laughing, Jackson calling me a loser. So I missed it when he turned on his heel and bounded back down the sidewalk to me.

"I think you're really pretty, okay?" his voice sounded angry and he refused to look me in the eye. "But if I would've picked you today, everyone would've made fun of me."

That was the only time Jackson ever said anything even remotely nice to me. To this day, I still don't understand why he said it. I've never really tried to dissect it either. It's much safer, this thing we have going now. I insult him, he insults me. It's a never-ending vicious cycle that I prefer over thinking and feeling.

I drop my dirty dish into the sink. I flip the faucet on and watch the water as it dissolves the tomato sauce on my plate. When I look out the window, I see Jackson carrying a big, black bag into his house. I roll my eyes. _Matt_, I thought. _That's who he was meeting. _I can't believe that kid was actually suckered into giving him a camera. Is there even a camera with a big enough aspect ratio output or memory card size to fit Jackson's ego?


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: It goes without saying that I don't own Teen Wolf. I only own any characters that you do not recognize.**

**Sorry for the wait! Life (*cough* procrastination *cough*) got in the way of updating. Thank you to all of you who have reviewed, followed, and favorited! It means a lot. **

**I've decided to post the soundtrack at the beginning of the chapter, in case anybody wants to listen/sample the songs that I recommend for the reading of this chapter. Enjoy!**

**Soundtrack to Chapter 4:**

**Eisley – Ten Cent Blues**

**Flight Facilities – Crave You (Adventure Club Remix)**

**Depeche Mode – Corrupt (A/N: Recommended listening for the interaction between Jackson and Warren during the rave, as well as the song listed after this one.)**

**The Weeknd – High For This**

_**Day 8**_

Getting into this rave is quite similar to trying to infiltrate the mafia in a seedy, underground bar. In order to get in, you have to know the secret password. Or, in this case, have the golden ticket. I got mine from Danny, who decided to forfeit this smelly strobe-light party for a quiet dinner at home with his parents. As I reach my hand through the gates to hand off my ticket to the girl, a chill tickles the back of my neck. I crane my neck to glance behind me, only to see a line of antsy teenagers waiting to get in. I shrug it off and make my way beyond the gate. This just doesn't feel right. Maybe I'm just being paranoid.

I enter the sea of bodies cautiously. My mind is running through all of the reasons I prefer to avoid these sorts of things. I can't dance. I can barely socialize without embarrassing myself in some way, however big or small. Not to mention, there's a certain ick-factor that comes with the rave atmosphere. Who in their right mind enjoys being rubbed by the sweaty flesh of strangers? I mean, I suppose some people trolling the erotic services section on Craigslist would, but…

_Focus, Warren. Focus._

The vibrations of the loud electronic music flutter in my heart. It's quite unpleasant, actually. It feels as if somebody is using my heart as an athletic punching bag. I really just want to get as far away from this place as possible. Stopping in the middle of the dance floor, I begin to scan the room for a tiny place of reprieve, somewhere quieter so I can think for a second. I see Matt, who sports the "I-just-got-ditched" face, staring after Allison. Deep down, I really don't want to join his Sad Clown Party, but I'm not sure how much longer I can handle being grinded on.

"Hey, Johnny Raincloud," I greet, stopping directly in front of Matt.

He replies, less enthusiastic than I, "Hi, Warren."

He looks sullen, defeated. I almost feel bad for him. That condescending voice in my head that wants to scold Matt for trying to encroach on territory that's already spoken for prevents me from truly feeling any sympathy for him. Plus, I can't forget that he's just super creepy.

"Your date ditch you?" I ask.

"She wasn't really my date to begin with," he mused. "I'll never compete with McCall."

"Plenty of bears in the river, bud," I encourage him, patting him on the shoulder.

Matt turns and looks at me. Really looks at me as if he's seeing me for the first time. His eyebrows are furrowed, creating that novel vertical crease that many people get when they are thinking intently. Or when they're devising diabolical plans.

"You're perfect for us," he breathes.

"Uh...what the hell are you talking about?" I question.

In the midst of my confusion, I barely register the feeling of the arm brushing up against my own. I only realize it when a hand creeps into my view and gently grasps my own. To my dismay, the gentle suitor is none other than Jackson Whittemore. For the love of God! Why is this happening to me? I wake up in the morning; I see his house. I go to school; I see his stupid, narcissistic face. I can't escape him! What horrible things have I done in life to deserve the torment of this persistent leech, this…terrible bout of frequently reoccurring genital herpes! What pill do I have to take to banish these Jackson flare-ups?!

"Can I help you?" I ask him rather rudely and then add. "There must be something seriously wrong with you if you're touching me…willingly."

The corner of his mouth lifts up slightly, the hint of a smirk. He begins to walk backwards, tugging me along with him. I tilt my head to the side. Something's wrong here. And it's not just the fact that my mortal enemy since childhood is quite possibly demanding that I dance with him.

I think he's…possessed? No, no. Possessed isn't the right word. Okay, remember in the movie "Fear" when Mark Wahlberg's character goes insane on Reese Witherspoon's, sexually assaulting her in a bathroom stall, threatening to kill her entire family, and successfully beheading her dog? Well, I'm getting a lot of those vibes from Jackson. Like, he's rocking a dash of homicidal maniac and just a smidge of sexual deviant. _Did I really just think that?_

Once we are in the very thick of the crowd, Jackson lets go of my hand. He circles me like I'm his vulnerable prey. At this point, I can't help but think that's exactly what I am. His hand ghosts around the curve of my waist, curling his fingers into the soft flesh of my side. He leans his face down into my neck and breathes deeply, trailing his nose along the line of my jaw and into my hair. My body is seemingly paralyzed, but he can see the desperation to run away written on my face.

He shakes his head back and forth, pouting his lips mockingly. His expression says, "There is no running, no escaping me." He pulls my body flush against his. I pound my fists against his chest. The urge to call out for help is overwhelming. I refrain from doing so for fear that I would draw everyone's attention to us. _Why I'm worried about his reputation at a time like this, I'll never understand. _

"Warren," his mouth says, with the voice of another.

He drags his finger down the side of my face, tilting it just so the tip of his sharp fingernail pierces the top layer of skin. I feel the sting of cut flesh before I even smell the blood. I practically cross my eyes in order to look at his finger resting on my cheek. He pulls it back to inspect the damage. The moment of this night, the one that solidifies all of my fears regarding Jackson, happens as he runs his tongue along his finger. _Tasting my blood? He's tasting my blood!_

I stare at his hand in absolute horror. That's when I notice it. Both of his hands are covered in rough, gray patches. Grays of different shades, resembling that of scales on a fish or a lizard run the lengths of his arms. I use the time he spends perusing his bloody finger to make a run for it. Bodies slam into me from every direction as I frantically try to navigate this hellish labyrinth. A big brute of guy, with a whistle and a couple glow sticks, unintentionally shuffles his foot forward at the worst possible moment and I'm sent tumbling to the ground. I take this opportunity to see if Jackson is coming after me, only to find him staring vacantly at me from the place I left him in.

I get back on my feet and run for the entrance. My breath comes out in short gasps. I squint my eyes shut, willing myself to just make it to my car. I'm thwarted once again by a human body. Thankfully, this one doesn't belong to a sociopathic reptile or a drunk teenager, but to Stiles. Stiles put his hands out to steady me, but I jump back. I've been touched enough tonight.

"Warren," he exclaims. "Are you okay?"

I'm breathing and blubbering and stuttering like a total mess. I'm not even sure he can understand what I'm saying. Through all of the commotion, though, he is able to pick out Jackson's name. His face turns serious.

He stands up straight and opens his mouth to speak, "We have to talk."

Four words that are never good, no matter the situation.


End file.
